Is It Love?
by mooseintheconsultingtardis
Summary: Sherlock and John meet during high school. Kidlock Johnlock AU
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first fanfiction so please don't be too harsh on me I'm still trying to figure out how this works. If it sucks I am so sorry here is virtual Ben&Jerry's to help soothe the pain. This story will be Johnlock so if you don't approve don't read. Thanks for reading!**

Is It Love?

_Bang! Bang!_ A harsh knocking on his bedroom door jolted John awake. Oh, great. It's Monday again. His mother barged into the room, whipping off his covers. John tried desperately to curl up on himself to keep warm, but his mother was relentless. She swooped in on him like a hawk, fingers reaching under his crossed arms to his stomach. He twitched like squirrel on its fifth coffee as his mother tickled him. "Mom! Stop!" he gasped in between peals of laughter. "I'm fourteen! You don't have to wake me up like that anymore!" Still, he clamored out of bed and gave her a hug, "good morning mom" he whispered. Ever since his dad left for the war it had been lonely, and he treasured every moment with his mother. Even the most excruciatingly embarrassing times he could tolerate because she was the only family left that he could see on a regular basis. She was his rock.

Trudging into his bathroom, John stripped off his clothes and turned on the shower. Letting the scalding water run over his skin, he thought about his father. Gregory Watson was a strong, brave man, always looking out for the weak. He met John's mother, Sylvia, when he was drafted out of college. She was an army nurse, tending to the patients on the battlefield, fighting her own battle of life or death. After the war was over, they settled down in a small home in the country. They had John, and everything looked as if it would be fine. A semblance of normalcy had just returned when Gregory received a phone call. "The war isn't over" was all the person on the other line had said. He dropped the phone, sinking to the ground. The war still haunted him, but he had to serve. Only allowed to come home when the war had died down, John had only seen his father a few times. Turning off the stream of water, John wrapped a towel around himself. Sighing, he began his methodical routine of getting dressed.

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Sherlock Holmes opened his bleary eyes. In exactly 6.03 seconds Mycroft would come in and brutally wake him up by ripping off the sheets and throwing him to the floor. 5, 4, 3, 2… _SLAM!_ "Get up _little brother_" Mycroft sneered down at him. "You will be late for school." He then left without another word in his normal snobbish manner. Sherlock slowly got up from the floor and walked into his adjoining bathroom. He stripped and stepped into the huge shower, barely noticing the water was ice cold. Trivial things like that didn't worry him, but what did? He dried his hair and body in the exact pattern needed to create optimum drying speed. Pulling on a pair of dark jeans and a crisp purple button up he walked downstairs to breakfast.

"Another breakup Mycroft? How soon, she barely had enough time to hate you." Sherlock stated plainly. Mycroft turned bright red and raised his hands, intent on strangling his brother. "Now, now, Myc." His mother scolded. "Sherlock, better eat quickly or you'll be late for school!" she practically squealed, although Sherlock didn't see why she was so excited. It was only his first day of high school after all. A new chance to make these things called "friends," as his mother put it. He didn't understand the need for friends, or the process of making them. It sounded incredibly dull. Grabbing a slice of toast, he walked out the door.

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John managed to get away from his mother's unnecessary fussing before he was late for school. His mother's fretting was a bit surprising; it was only his first day of high school after all. She just wanted him to get a girlfriend, though half the time she was saying he was too young. Ugh, women. He jumped on his bike and pedaled the few blocks to school without difficulty. Locking his bike to the rack, he adjusted his school uniform and straightened it nervously. Dang it! Now mom was rubbing off on him! Still, he wanted to make a good impression on the students, he had just transferred to Baker Street High that year. A crowd had already gathered, though he was early. All of the students looked excited to be attending, except one.

A tall bloke stood out from the rest in his dark jeans and purple button-up, definitely not the regulated uniform. All he was doing was looking at his phone, irritated for some reason, as if school was an incredibly boring experience. A few of the girls milled around him, but they were ignored. Maybe he was gay? It would explain his obvious disinterest in the attractive females that were clearly interested. John could see why, the bloke was quite handsome. Wait, he wasn't gay, just noticing things. Yeah, that's it. Suddenly, the student looked up, directly at John, eyes skimming over him. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" the words tumbled out of his mouth in a luscious baritone. Dang it! Not those thoughts again! Get out! "Huh?" John stuttered, still wheeling at his voice. "Your father, Afghanistan or Iraq? Sherlock Holmes, by the way." He added the last bit seemingly as an afterthought. "Afghanistan. But, how did you know?"

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Ugh, the first day again. How long does this torture go on? A gaggle of girls gathered around Sherlock Holmes, hoping to get spoken to. He noticed their presence, but didn't show it externally. He could care less about what they thought of him. Glancing up and around for a brief moment, he noticed a newcomer. He seemed nervous, but held himself confidently. A military background, by the way he clasped his hands behind his back. The newcomer was staring at him, blue eyes gazing into his emerald ones. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" The words flowed out before he could stop them. He forgot for a moment the effect his words had on people. The bloke jolted back a bit, surprised. "Huh?" he stuttered, clearly flabbergasted. "Your father, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Obviously he wasn't in the war, and the stance he probably picked up from watching his father. Afghanistan and Iraq were the only wars going on at this time, and the father was absent, it was evident in the fact that the newcomer seemed to be a father figure. No carefree teenager held themselves like that, with that many worry lines.

Sherlock tried not to show interest in the newcomer, but his emotion got the best of him. His eyes flicked up from where he was scanning the crowd to meet his eyes at the words that came out of the newcomer's mouth. "Afghanistan, but how did you know?" his voice was nice, not harsh or demanding, just confused and full of wonder. "It was apparent in the way you held yourself. You are too young to be in the war, but your father…Sorry, Sherlock Holmes." Why was he introducing himself? He usually didn't care. "That's amazing!" The newcomer didn't run away or glare at him, how puzzling. "I'm so sorry, my name is John Watson." The newcomer, John, seemed genuinely impressed, actually caring about what Sherlock said. He was a bit taken aback by the apology, nothing like that ever happened to him.


	2. Chapter 2: Class

**A/N: To all those who read and reviewed, thank you for your support! I hope you enjoyed! This chapter is a bit longer than the other one, and I think they will get progressively longer. Sorry if it sucks, it is my first fanfic. To all you Merlin fans, my friend wholocked12 has a story called A Turn In The Century that is hilarious.**

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The bell jolted John out of his reverie. Oh god I have to get to class! Panic flashed through him as the mob of students cascaded through the now-open doors. Forced to keep up, he rushed along with them, whisked away from the stranger, er, Sherlock. What an exotic name, very fancy. It suited his admirable looks. NOPE, NOT GOING THERE. Oh look, the office. THE OFFICE. Struggling against the onslaught of large, pubescent bodies, John somehow made it back to the office doors. Maybe being the shortest kid in your grade did have some upsides. His meager hopes of making a good impression were shattered when he caught a reflection of himself in the glass of the door. His tie was mangled beyond repair, looking more akin to a hangman's noose than a sophisticated piece of clothing. The shirt his mother had carefully and lovingly ironed for him would need a heck of a lot more ironing after today if this morning was any indication. And his hair, oh my, that was not a pretty sight to behold.

The receptionist sitting at the foremost desk looked at him with sympathetic eyes. Did he really look that pathetic? "Um, excuse me, uh ma'am?" he faltered, not sure how to address the woman. Manners were always good though. "Oh! You must be our new student, John Watson! Am I correct? And so polite, we need more of that here!" John wasn't sure if her kindness was genuine, but a quick glance at her eyes revealed she was. What a kind woman, he didn't meet many office-workers that actually enjoyed their job. "Here's your schedule, hon. There's a map attached in back, and if you get lost there are prefects that are stationed in the hallways every hour." She smiled brightly as she handed him the items. "Also, your assignment notebook," a chunky object he didn't plan on using was also handed over, "A printing card, and a take-home folder for Thursdays. You keep the card in the library and the folder in your homeroom. Speaking of, you homeroom teacher is Mr. Holmes." Holmes, why was that familiar?

Another bell rang, the late bell. He hoped he would be excused since it was his first day and he was still sorting everything out. John consulted the map in his hands. It seemed Mr. Holmes' room was on the far side of the building, accessed only through a pair of double-doors on his left. Stumbling into the lecture hall, he was surprised to see the man he met earlier, Sherlock, Sherlock, what was it again? Oh yes, Holmes, arguing with the man at the lectern, most likely Mr. Holmes. Wait, they were both Holmes? He didn't think they put relatives in the same class, but maybe it was special circumstance. He tried to sneak to an open seat without causing a fuss, but Mr. Holmes noticed him with eagle-sharp eyes. "Young man, where do you think you are going?" the teacher asked with a forced politeness, he obviously wasn't happy. "I-I'm your transfer student, John Watson." John managed to force it out of his unyielding vocal cords.

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Sherlock got to class early, stashing his bag on the floor by his chair. Why on Earth did they think it was a good idea to put him in his brother's homeroom? It was bad enough Mycroft taught at the school he attended, but being in his class? It seems to be divine punishment, not that there is such a thing. Picking up his book, "The Risen Empire" by Scott Westerfeld, he immersed himself in the world of the future. Frivolous pursuits such as reading fiction didn't normally engage him, but the book was skillfully written, plunging you into the storyline from page one. A presence at his side pulled him from the battlefront and back into reality. "What do you want Mycroft?" Sherlock sighed inwardly, turning his gaze back to his book, the first in a series, one he planned to have read by the end of the day.

A rough hand grasped his chin firmly, craning his neck to look into cold, watered-down grey eyes. "Look at me when I'm speaking, brother dear." The sneer was evident in his voice alone, but pictured on his face was one of epic proportions. "Well, you weren't talking until a few moments ago, so you have no reason to ridicule me." Sherlock's witty retort earned another hard glare from his dearest brother. His mind meandered back to the bloke from before, who had been brutally torn from him mid-sentence by the ungracious bell. He was so kind, that was a new experience for Sherlock, and a pleasant one. Feeling himself getting dragged to his feet, he grasped the thin thread of consciousness in the present, binging himself back.

Normally stronger than his brother, his brief trip to his mind-palace changed that. Sherlock allowed Mycroft to drag him to the front podium. Once there, Mycroft started wildly gesticulating to something on his laptop. Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock regarded the file his brother had pulled up on the screen. It seemed to be the class plans for the day, but someone had tampered with it. A genius tampering, he added with an inner smile. "It wasn't me, Myc; you should be able to recognize my work by now. This," he gestured to the file, "is obviously not my work. I would never stoop to such an unintelligent level of antagonization." After a moment, he considered what he said and added, "Even for you."

Mycroft's face was beet red by the time students started filing in, exhaustion evident on their already school-weary faces. Sherlock snuck a quick glance at the list of students in this class. Molly Hooper, Gregory Lestrade, Phillip Anderson, Sally Donovan, Irene Adler, Kitty Riley, John Watson, Arthur Conan-Doyle, Charles A. Magnussen, Andrew Scott. He couldn't finish reading the list before Mycroft snatched it away and positioned it under his beak of a nose to read off the roll. Ugh, the females were less than desirable in this class. They either hated him with a fierce passion or were prominent members of his alleged "fan club." John Watson, the bloke he met before, was also on the list. A part of him, hidden deep inside the recesses of his being, wanted the fellow to sit by him.

When Sherlock escaped his brother's grasp, he headed back to his seat in the rear of the room. A small click at the door alerted him to another presence. A very flustered John Watson unsuccessfully tried to sneak into the classroom. Sherlock looked to the seat next to him. Empty, as always. That small part of him inside rejoiced when he noticed his was the only empty seat left. "Young man, where do you think you are going?" he heard Mycroft direct at John with that sickeningly sweet, fake politeness of his. "I-I'm your transfer student, John Watson." John stuttered out, clearly flustered.

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I'm so sorry Mr. Holmes, I got lost." John faced the hawk-like gaze of his professor's eyes. "I'm in your class, so I'll just, sit." Get yourself together, come on, channel your father. He glanced around, finding the only open seat next to the student he met earlier. Sherlock looked very bored, John thought, immersed in a work of fiction. Glancing at the cover, he found it was a book by one of his favorite authors. "That's a fantastic book." John whispered to the man sitting next to him. "Books are the best weapons in the world you know." He only got a curt nod in response. Were his friendly advances being pushed away? Sherlock seemed so open and accepting of him earlier, maybe John was wrong.

He took out his notebook and a pencil to take notes on what seemed to be calculus. Math. In. The. Morning. Blimey, he would have to get used to some different sleeping schedules if he was to get through the school year alive. At least he could see Sherlock in the morning, the first real almost-friend he had made this year. A chorus of giggles erupted from the row before them, and John noticed the group of girls had been among the gaggle surrounding Sherlock before school in the courtyard. A fan-club maybe? They seemed the type. His suspicions were confirmed when he glanced between their shoulders and saw what they were giggling at. A horrendous drawing of Sherlock was scrawled on the paper they were supposed to use to take notes. This photo was surrounded by illegible signatures that John mused were the girl's names with Sherlock's surname attached on the end.

Glancing over at Sherlock, John noticed he wasn't even paying attention to the lecture. Shoot, he wasn't either! He looked at the board with trepidation, oh gosh, how did all that get on the board? He felt a nudge at his hand. A notebook full of notes on this lesson was scrawled in barely-legible script. John looked at Sherlock with thanks brimming over. Maybe he did want to be friends? He seemed pretty lonely. He quickly scribbled down the notes before sliding back the notebook. In the corner of the page underneath was something dark.

Flipping the page, there was an intricate drawing of a dog. It almost looked as if it would jump out of the page and lick him on the face. The notebook was slammed closed and whipped from his hands. He looked up to find steely green-blue eyes staring into his. John gulped. He wasn't thinking about how beautiful those eyes were, or how full those lips were, and what it would feel like when those smooth hands touched his face. When? How about if? Wait, what? He shouldn't be having these thoughts at all. Rubbing his temples, John contemplated his life choices, not noticing the grey eyes glaring up at him.


	3. Chapter 3: Feelings?

**A/N: Sorry for not posting in so long guys. I hope you like this chapter! See if you can catch the references in this one! Sorry about the OC, I normally don't make them, but this one was suggested by my friend and I couldn't resist. There is finally a little bit of romance and fluff in this chapter. Sorry about the ending, you guys will probably hate me after. Thanks again for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following! **

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"See me after class, Mr. Watson." John's head jerked up, immediately turning a red brighter than his mom's Christmas sweaters. Heads turned towards John, beady eyes fixated on his composure, wondering just what he had been doing. Why did he have go and make Mr. Holmes stop the lecture? Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! No, no, regain your composure, don't look like a smoked ham just out of the oven, mmmm, ham. NO! All of these thought happened in the span of a second, though it felt like an eternity, especially with the glazed eyes of his classmates staring at him. Glazed, mmmmm, doughnuts. John hid his head between his hands, baggy jumper material bunching up around his face. With one last, lingering glare, Mr. Holmes turned around and continued the seminar.

Mr. Holmes sighed almost imperceptibly before opening up a PowerPoint presentation. The first few slides pulled up on the screen without difficulty, and no visible tampering. The lesson proceeded, yawns amplified in the half-empty room. Between the fourth and fifth slide, the professor hesitated. Grimacing a little, he clicked "next," revealing the slide. The text was still the same boring font and regulation black, but the background contained a crudely drawn picture of Mr. Holmes, fatter and uglier than usual. He attempted to keep teaching, snickers and whispers reaching his ears. John watched a vein slowly bulge out of his temple, though his face remained an apathetic mask. A chuckle rumbled out of John, threatening to turn into full-blown laughter if not released. He couldn't do that though, he would be sent to the office for sure under suspect of committing the crime. Mr. Holmes held too much power. Teachers are scary.

John heard a low, thundery sound emanating from the student beside him. Glancing over, he noticed Sherlock was having the same struggle as he was. Sherlock's eyes crinkled in at the outside corners and nose crinkled at the bridge. It was the most adorable thing John had ever seen. In a platonic way, of course, for he could never be gay. Right? John started blushing furiously as his thoughts moved to Sherlock's lips, curved into a perfect smile, albeit slightly crooked. He wondered what it would take to get Sherlock to smile like that for him, and only him. Or what it would feel like when those lips met hi-NOWAYNOWAYNOWAYNOWAY NOT GOING THERE THANKS BYE. That stupid git just couldn't stop being adorable could he. Stupid Sherlock, making me question my sexuality.

Mr. Holmes let the class have free study after the incident so he could go catch the culprit, but not before he clicked to the next slide. This one had the text erased and said instead, "Molly Hooper, will you go out with me?" over a background of flowers. It was just signed, "-G." One of the girls a few rows down blushed a deep shade of crimson when she read the slide, almost as deep as Mr. Holmes, though the latter was out of anger, not embarrassment. The girl, presumably Molly, was soon surrounded by a circle of tittering girls all asking who it was from.

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"Mr. Watson, see me after class." Each word was a separate blow, shot straight from his brother's mouth into his stomach. Why did he feel like this? This isn't normal. "Sherlock Holmes, guilty for the first time." Newspaper worthy. John was just looking at his drawings, didn't do any harm, so why did he slam the book? Sherlock watched John turn redder and redder, trying to be inconspicuous wasn't hard when everyone was staring. A flush spread across his own cheeks as he noticed how adorable John is when he's embarrassed. Quickly looking away, he started to sketch absentmindedly, pencil scraping away at the page, etching a story on the paper. When Sherlock finally looked down, he started at what he had drawn. John stared at him from the notebook, blush creeping across his face, jumper-covered hands over his mouth. Shit. Sherlock slammed the notebook closed before John could see, and turned away, attempting to hide his embarrassment. Sherlock Holmes is never flustered. Luckily, everyone was too busy laughing at the lecture to care; not that they would anyway.

The PowerPoint slide Mycroft had pulled up was the one he had showed him earlier. Staring at the horrible drawing, a laugh bubbled up inside him. Sherlock heard John start to giggle as well, dang that was cute. A smile tried to creep onto Sherlock's face as he struggled to stop the peals of laughter threatening to break through. A glance to his left showed his table partner was having the same issue. John's blue eyes seemed to get even bluer, if that was possible, when he was laughing. Mycroft looked close to bursting at the incredibly unflattering image of him with a bigger gut than he had, but not too much bigger. Mycroft pressed the "next" button when continuing the lesson on that slide proved futile. This slide was worse, and featured none of the equations it should. Instead, it had letters spelling out "Molly Hooper, will you go out with me? –G." Funny, there weren't any students whose names started with "G" in this class, or grade. He would surely remember.

Mycroft stormed out of the room, declaring the rest of the period free study. Sherlock then let himself be consumed by laughter. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed, this hard or otherwise. He wasn't so preoccupied with his reminiscence of his horrible childhood that he didn't notice John staring at him; however, trying (and failing) to hide it. A look of almost, longing, no, couldn't be, flickered across John's face. The way he stared at the girls earlier this morning made it obvious he was heterosexual, whereas Sherlock wasn't exactly overt or covert about his pansexuality, not that anyone knew what that was. Everyone assumed that he was either bi or homosexual, or just asexual. Not true.

Sherlock pulled out "The Risen Empire" again, having no need to study, seeing as he already completed the assignments, well, the whole week's assignments, much to the ire of his brother. He was just finishing the epilogue when he felt a tug on his sleeve. Turning, he found a thoroughly mortified John starting to open his mouth. "Could you help me with this problem?" Thrusting a paper covered in a rough scrawl towards him, John blushed even deeper, probably embarrassed about his lack of comprehension. Sherlock glanced at the page, noticing the glaring mistakes in almost every problem. "Which one? They are all wrong." Shoot, why did that sound so mean? Why do I care? "I'm, sorry, that came out, wrong." Sherlock faltered, not used to the whole apologizing business. "Yes, of course I'll help you. With all of them." The hurt expression on the other's faded a bit at the second statement, replaced by an almost relieved expression.

Sherlock tried to explain the confusing, at least for John, calculus problems. However, the bell rang before he could get John to fully comprehend the paper and the near-impossible, at least for normal humans, equations Mycroft had assigned for homework. Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock scribbled his cell number on John's paper, along with the instructions "Call me later." He grabbed his things and rushed out the door, he couldn't be late for his next "class." At second period he volunteered at the school's library, sorting books in the comforting quiet of the huge space, almost always empty. He was greeted with a smile by the head librarian, the only one that seemed to understand him, which he tried to return. Mrs. Hudson, the librarian, gave him a cart of books to reshelve, mostly crappy romance novels with predictable endings and cheesy plot lines. After finishing, he pushed the cart back to its place and found the big chair in the back of the library, oddly reminiscent of the one in his mind-palace. Sherlock curled into the chair with another novel, this one a sci-fi-fantasy, "Pathfinder" by Orson Scott Card. He was halfway through the first quarter of the book when the bell rang. Checking out the book, he attempted another smile, this one succeeding.

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Looking at his map and consulting his schedule, John made his way towards his second class, a block period, taught by Mrs. Nye. When he finally stumbled into the classroom after getting lost from his map being upside-down, he was greeted by a warm smile. "You must be our transfer student, John!" She exclaimed with a happy twinkle in her eyes. Oh good, a nice teacher. Yay chemistry! "Should we give him a proper initiation?" This time she addressed the class. Okay, starting to get a bit worried. "Here hold this please, John." He was once again faced with a bright smile he couldn't refuse. He accepted the large beaker with mixed emotions; he wasn't sure whether to be scared or excited. Mrs. Nye poured a substance into the beaker that looked suspiciously like a combustible fluid. She then thought a moment before mixing two other substances in another beaker. Uh oh, I can see where this is going. These look suspiciously like liquid lithium and something to create an oxygen-producing reaction. "Um, Mrs. Nye, if you mix these, they'll explode. That isn't very safe." The class looked surprised, as if no one had ever noticed before. Aren't chemistry students supposed to know basic science and substance reactions?

Mrs. Nye just chuckled, "Don't worry; these are low enough concentrations it shouldn't do anything massive." What kind of chemistry teacher gets students into dangerous situations without goggles? A fun one. John was definitely excited now. He held out the beaker eagerly, a broad smile on his face. "Let's do it." Mrs. Nye clinked the beakers together as if in a toast. As the liquids merged together, they momentarily mingled in bright globs around each other before a bright explosion erupted from the neck of John's beaker. He gingerly touched his face where his eyebrows were, expecting to find the same bushy caterpillars as always, and the tingling was just some minor chemical reaction. Nope. Where were his eyebrows? He peeked over at Mrs. Nye, whose hair stuck up in all directions, "Great Scott, John!" John's own hair looked much the same he suspected, proven correct by a quick run-though of his fingers. If this was what he got on the first day, the rest of the school year should be record-breaking. "Can I go to the bathroom? My eyebrows kinda burned off."

John sauntered back into the room, taking a seat by a kind-looking girl who introduced herself as Rose Hudson, daughter of the librarian and some travelling reporter named David. An occasional whisper could be heard only by the kids directly in front of them, but the frequent giggles earned a soft almost-glare from Mrs. Nye at the front. Rose's soft blonde hair swung into his eyes when she leaned in to make some joke about the subject matter that never failed to make him laugh. By the end of the hour, John had made his second friend, the first being Sherlock, who seemed like a friend to him.

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Sherlock blundered into class as gracefully as one could blunder, interrupting the teacher mid-sentence. "You're late, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock handed the teacher the entire week's homework, plus the project due in a month. That seemed to shut his aggravatingly yappy mug. Strolling to the back of the room, he plunked down his bag on the table, grasping for his book as he did so. The teacher's monotonous voice drowned into the background as he lost himself in the book. A sharp rap on the desk in front of him broke his immersion into the fantasy world. "I said, who used a wok as a helmet and shield in his battles?" Sherlock looked up to find a pair of blue eyes sneering down at him, unlike John's kind ones. "Gengis Khan." That fact was so elementary Sherlock didn't need to listen to the irritating man drone on for 45 minutes to know the answer. Unsurprisingly, teacher seemed surprised at his quick answer and bored tone. He tried to smile at Sherlock, lip twitching and neck vein bulging, "Thank you, Sherlock, you see class…" It all faded after that, Sherlock's body crumpled in on itself in his chair.


	4. Chapter 4: Lunch

**A/N: Sorry for the short chapter guys. I wanted to update sooner but I have WCATY and have been really stressed. I was sick today so I had some time. I should be getting to some fluffy stuff next chapter, so bear with me. I hope you enjoy! **

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Blue-green eyes cracked open, surveying the room with a sleep-clouded gaze. Blinking the clouds away, Sherlock sat bolt upright, sterile sheets crinkling as he shifted. Where am I? Shelves filled with various pieces of medical equipment lined the walls. Cheap, not a doctor's office. The nurse's office! A pounding pain in the front of his skull revealed why he was there, he must have collapsed. His stomach gurgled, reminding him of the overly _human_ need to consume edibles. A plump nurse rushed inside, carrying a granola bar and a water bottle. Handing them to Sherlock, she fussed with his sheets and felt his forehead, muttering unintelligible words as she did so. Sherlock tore the wrapper of the bar gently, removing one of the tasteless items. Grimacing as he ate it, he tried to wash the bar down with a gulp of water. The nurse seemed satisfied with her work, and flipped on the lights as she left, only to run back inside when she heard the sharp hiss of pain escape Sherlock's lips.

"So sorry, I lost myself there for a second." The kind nurse flipped them off again. "It's a habit, I normally have them on."

Sherlock waved her apologies away, sitting up further and taking a step towards the door. His legs swayed, collapsing under him and forcing him back onto the hard mattress. A sharp rapping on the office door startled the nurse, who had reached out to steady Sherlock. Glancing at the door, hands prepared to make the "one moment please" sign, her face paled and she rushed over. A long shadow darkened the entrance.

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The lunch bell rang, signaling the end of the hour. John gathered his things and had only just started to worry about where he would sit when a hand grabbed his shoulder. Rose's green-grey eyes stared at his.

"Don't worry; you can sit with me and my friends!" The words escaped her mouth along with a bright smile that instantly cheered John up.

"Thank you for your invitation, but I would rather eat in the library." John hadn't really, but the words tumbled out before he could stop them. His mind seemed to have a will of its own. He supposed he did have that research project to work on…

"Oh, okay! I'll see you around then!" Rose strode out of the classroom, seeming a bit downtrodden. John felt awful about refusing her invitation, but he couldn't just take back what he had said before. He followed Rose out, turning away from the cafeteria and towards the library, or at least where the map said the library was. Pushing through students rushing towards the promise of food, he caught some hushed whispers.

"Did you hear about Sherlock?"

"Yeah, I can't believe he collapsed, I wish I could have seen the look on his face, that bastard."

"Haha, yeah, that must have been great!"

"He should do this more often."

John was appalled at the students hate for Sherlock, no one warranted that much open loathing. He paled at the whispers as they got meaner and meaner; describing how happy they were that he had collapsed. Even with barely knowing the guy, he could tell Sherlock was actually very kind, he just didn't know how to express it. Soon John found himself at the doors of the library. The large, brass handles looked imposing, but they held sanctuary for those less fortunate in the popularity department. Before he had the chance to open them, a group of girls pushed through, squealing about someone named "Sebastian" and how "I would totally die if Sebaciel became canon!" John was pretty sure they weren't speaking an actual language. He decided to ignore them and promptly forgot as soon as he caught a glimpse of the impressive collection of books. A strong whiff of vanilla and must hit him, enveloping John in a soft blanket of book-smell. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside, finding a table at the back he took out his meager lunch of a ham sandwich on rye and an apple.

Pulling out his laptop, John switched on Netflix, pulling up his queue and clicking the first option. The first few notes of the Doctor Who theme song blasted through his ear-buds, gracing his ears with beautiful music. Now that he thought about it, Rose looked a hell of a lot like The Doctor's companion. The thought was quickly lost as the episode started. John lost all track of time, and soon enough lunch was over, but he was still immersed in the show. Luckily for him, his next period was library work, his school service class. He was given the choice between cleaning after school and helping at the library for his mandatory service, as the other ones were already filled.

John was finally pulled back to reality by a sharp whack on his head. Mrs. Hudson stood behind him, a disapproving look on her face.

"You are supposed to be here for helping me, not watching Doctor Who." John looked a bit panicked as he noticed her glare. The glare melted into a smile when he switched off his laptop and took off his headphones. John was engulfed in a hug. Maybe this was going to be an okay school year.


End file.
